


Get My Feet On Holy Ground

by butwritingishard



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Fluff, Gen, for extended dean/buffy cuteness, might need a part 2, this is almost more of a really long dean winchester self-para
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butwritingishard/pseuds/butwritingishard
Summary: HOME. One of the few he’s got. One of the few he’s been allowed to have. One he’ll drive through 2000 miles for just to drink some boozed-up ‘nog with in front of a tree and kiss beneath some strategically placed mistletoe. (Or, The One Where Dean Drives From Minnesota to California to See Buffy Summers)





	

**Author's Note:**

> An entry for @spnholidaymixtape's Holiday Mixtape challenge!

_**IRONWOOD, MI** _

It won’t take long with his lead foot, four, five, days at most if the weather cooperates while he's still farther North. There's a storm in the forecast, but he figures if he made it through actual, literal biblical _Hell_ then he can drive through a blizzard or two. Not that Iowa wasn’t going to suck about as hard as it could this time of year, and the roads heading into California were going to be a _bitch_ the day before Christmas, but he'd deal.

His coffee cup typical greasy spoon beige-and-ceramic,  _never fails_ ~~\---~~ catches his grin when he thinks about it. Buffy wasn't a fan of surprises, holiday fun ones even less since _Casper_ and his bloodthirsty friends went a little murder-crazy that one Thanksgiving. Dean doesn't even think about surprising her on her birthday anymore, hell, she barely lets him say the word 'surprise' anymore. That's the thought that makes him pause, considers calling ahead for a minute or two but the opportunity to give her a _not-crappy_ surprise is just too good to pass up. Totally worth the potential Slayer asskicking, if he's honest.

He drains his coffee quickly after that, black and about as close to gasoline as he could ask it to be; he'd need it to drive through the already darkening night. The hunt still presses weary on his eyes and shoulders, and if he didn't trust his road skills as much as he did, didn't have a girl to see about, he'd sleep it off and hit the road by sun-up. He'd take it though, a rare win for the Winchesters ~~\---~~ zero civilian casualties, another monster dusted off the face of the planet, couple of kids and their parents that'll live a long life with only moderate mental scarring. Heavy as his bones felt, he wasn't going to complain when those kids were still going to wake up to Santa's loot on Christmas day because of him and his brother.

"You have a good night and a Merry Christmas, sugar.  And get home to that lucky lady of yours in one piece, alright?"

He doesn’t ask how she knows, learned a long time ago that the people who worked in these places could probably figure out State secrets with one look in the President's eyes. He just slaps a bill down on the greasy formica with a wink and a smile to the waitress behind the counter, a little older than himself and a little sun-wrinkled around her eyes, but she beams just about as bright as the Christmas lights along the edge of the shelf behind her.

* * *

 

_**ROCK CREEK, MN** _

He's a couple hours past the Wisconsin-Minnesota border and he's shedding off the week with every tap of his fingers against the steering wheel. It's always like that, the way his shoulders feel a little lighter when he’s left a state that held a hunt just a day before. There's nothing but quiet back roads and long highways to look forward to. Tonight, it's stretches of snowy scenery racing alongside him as he races to beat the storm and the Christmas eve crowds all completely unaware of who he is, of the salt and gasoline and marks he left in his wake.

It's a respite, a cleansing that can't ever scrub off the darkest of stains he's got, but can lessen them for a few hundred miles. For 10 hours at a time, more if he's got more than 4 hours of sleep in him, he can live with the idea that there's nothing but his Baby, her radio, and the pairs of red lights flashing in front of him. And he's lucky, really, that she gets that. When he takes off in the middle of the night sometimes to clear his mind, Buffy gets why. She understands what he's saying with his lips on hers or his arms wrapped around her like he'll finally tumble off that cliff if he lets go or when he presses his forehead to hers (as much as he can with her being the size of a freakin' elf) and gathers himself.

He isn't a religious guy, even being buddies with an angel hasn’t changed that, but there's a few things he can say are holy in this world: his car, a good slice of pie, his brother's post-hunt celebratory bottle clinking against his own, and Buffy Summers.

Bing Crosby starts to croon about a  White Christmas (where he's heading it’ll be a green one which is more than freakin' fine after spending the lion's share of his time on the East Coast or in _Prairies, Middle Of Nowhere, U.S.A._ lately) on the radio and green eyes flick to the clock ticking away on the dashboard.

Yeah, he's got another few hours in him.

* * *

 

_**Lincoln, NE** _

Eight hours later he stops in Lincoln, Nebraska. Would' ve drove straight through the night if he hadn't been running pretty ragged already, or had Sam with him. But his brother's back in South Dakota on his own case with Bobby, and Dean can't wait to see what kind of _Mom Van_ Sam drives into Sunnydale with when they meet up.  Instead, the _Knights of the Round Table Inn_ call his name in neon lights and all the complimentary crappy coffee he can suck down. Hell, he can even sit at the **“HUGE”** Round Table they've got in the breakfast room, apparently, and **“EAT, DRINK, FEEL LIKE A KING!”**. Who would he be to turn that kind of opportunity down?

Not himself, that's for sure. No, he's up just a little after the sun is to pack away his belongings (if  a duffle and an old, beat up leather bag toiletries bag were substantial enough for 'belongings') and put in another long day. He'd head through Colorado today, as far as he could before stopping again. Maybe make it somewhere near the UT-NV border for another night after that, and then gun it straight through to Cali.

It's the plan he’s mulling over in his head when someone joins him at the coffee dispensers, a trucker by the looks of it. The guy's only gotta be ten years older than he is, give or take a few, just a handful of grey hairs peeking from beneath the fraying cap on his head, but he's worn ~~\----~~ the look of someone who’s seen a lot of road in his life.

"Got a long drive ahead'a you?" And _there's_ the voice Dean expects, can almost see the guy with his CB radio in hand.

He's got a knowing grin too as he looks at the two cups of coffee Dean’s going to be double-fisting, and Dean's got his own when he snaps the plastic lids on.

"Uh, _yeah_...hopin' to get into Grand Junction before _Jack Frost_ slams mecan’t say I ain’t lookin’ forward to some Christmas palm trees A _-freakin'-SAP_ , y'know? You?"

"Illinois, nothin' too bad. Hittin' the coast for the holidays though...I'd be turnin’ green if I wasn't headin’ back to see my lady---y'got somethin’ waitin' for you down there?"

“Yeah...yeah, got some, uh, family.” He doesn’t elaborate, not this morning; maybe on another day when he wasn't racing the clock, he'd sit down with this guy, swap stories, tell him about the girl waiting for him in California and how the sun there doesn't hold a freakin' candle to her.  He's done it before, learned a lot about a lot of things from guys like the one beside him. Obviously, the short answer doesn't bother his traveler-in-arms, hell, Dean would even say there's a _twinkle_ in the blue eyes. Yeah, he gets it.

"Good luck, kid."

Dean gives the older man a nod, and raises one cup in a salute, a smile just at the edges of his lips as he heads out of the building.

* * *

 

_**SOMEWHERE NEAR OUTSIDE OF GRAND JUNCTION, CO** _

The storm he'd expected in Iowa doesn’t hit until he gets into Colorado. And it hits hard.

It's not a whiteout but damn, is it close. Wind that shakes even Baby's hulk of a frame, and gusts of snow that turn the world into a snow globe around him.

God, he hates the stuff.

It's a good thing he knows the highways, interstates, and general layout of this country as well he does _(thanks for that, dad)_  because half the signs are nothing but smudges of blue and green-edged white against a wall of white. They're the only streaks of color around him that aren't cars pulled off to the side, or the distinctive red shine of the taillights in front of him.

It's bad enough at one point that he thinks about stopping, really hates himself for it too because that’s just a sign of _defeat_ in his books, but then...he's looking into his side mirror for a moment when he notices the car beside him. A guy inside, about his age this time, looking the same way Dean probably does right now: determined, squinting through the snow, white-knuckling the wheel  and driving at the fastest snail's pace he can get away with. But it's not _that_ look that steels his resolve, it's the one when gets when guy-beside-him risks a glance out his window, the quick nod that says _“hey, man, guess we're both stubborn jackasses.”_

That's the look that puts his eyes right back on the taillights in front of him, uses them like a pair of air traffic control lights.

It's the power and comfort and ease he feels when he taps Baby's dashboard that shifts his weather-weary nerves back into places, at least for the next hundred miles.

It's the warmth, still strange and unfamiliar and friggin' terrifying, that curls up from his gut when he thinks about who he's driving through this shitstorm _for_ that keeps him fighting all the way to Grand Junctionsinging along _(it's a little off-key, fine, but **damn straight** it's singin’) _to Chuck Berry and Sinatra all the while

* * *

 

_**LAS VEGAS, NV** _

A couple hours at the MGM Grand, a little bit down, a few hundred up... _winner winner chicken dinner, and a Merry freakin' Christmas to me_.

He leaves the Strip behind with some money in an extra clip for Sam, and a new knife for Buffy. Feminine and dangerous and so... _gleaming_ he'd swear it almost blinded him beneath the lights of the store.

What? Buffy liked pretty things _(“now you know why I like you!”, she’d teased more times than he could count; all smartass smiles and kisses to the spot beneath his jaw)_ , and with her line of work? The thing wasn’t just _pretty_ , it was downright _practical_.

* * *

 

_**SUNNYDALE, CA** _

_ Sorry Bing, ain't gonna be anythin’'but green around here. _

It's not exactly balmy either, not at this time of night but it's a far cry from the weather he'd been braving miles and miles ago. It's good, always is when he can make it here to see her, and hell if he's not going to squeeze as many sweet, sweet obligation-free days out of this trip as he can before him and Sam find another case.

He takes a minute to stretch beside the car, shakes the burgeoning creak out of one knee and stretches restless arms high above his head and lets his eyes roam over the house. Garland and lights looking a little odd against the backdrop of full shrubbery, but it's the small, pink flamingo in the Santa hat that gets a chuckle from him before he heads up the walkway.

He knocks a fist against the door just beneath the wreath ( _not_ meadowsweet, he notes with a relief that's almost ridiculously apparent. Friggin' pagans, man) and studies the plastic Santa hanging in one window---swim trunks, Hawaiian-print shirt and hat in all their glory---in an attempt to keep himself from peering through the glass planes like paparazzi creeping on _Branjelina_. He's a grown man, he shouldn’t feel like a teenager bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet and ready to bust out of his skin (and, yeah, alright, his pants too but _that_ Christmas Miracle would come after he caught a few Zs. if the big guy in red was going to deliver tonight then Dean Winchester would too) just to see her face.

That all goes out the window when the door opens and he does see her. Shock. Confusion. A tug of her lips, more confusion, _surprise_. The good kind. _There it is_. Then he smiles, it's tired and lifts on one side more than the other but it's genuine. The sort of smile he doesn't get to feel very often, and around her...he doesn't hide it.

She speaks first, simple and easy, the current of excitement _just_ below the surface, like he didn't show up out of nowhere on her doorstep at almost midnight on Christmas Eve.

"Hi." 

"Hey."

"Where’s Sam? _Tell me_ you didn't leave your brother behind in some tiny, blizzard-torn town for a _cross-five-state booty call_."

" _Oh_ , c'mon, gimme some credit ~~\-----~~ drove ‘cross _seven_ states to get here." He grins, a sparkle in his eyes that isn’t from the lights around the door. "No, he, uh, had his own thing back with Bobby.. He'll start headin’ down tonight, told me to save him some of your chocolate chip cookies or he'd kick my ass and start huntin' with you instead."

Can't say he'd blame his brother, she was a helluva lot prettier. Threw a mean right hook too.

"...Merry Christmas, Dean."

She smiles up at him, not loud or too much, but bright and and curling up at the edges in a way he’s come to think of as _**Home**_. One of the few he's got. One of the few he's been _allowed_ to have. One he’ll drive through 2000 miles for just to drink some boozed-up 'nog with in front of a tree and kiss beneath some _strategically placed_ mistletoe. He' s not really sure when he turned into a friggin; Hallmark movie, and he'll insist to any grave that'll finally hold him down, that he isn't, but... maybe it's not such a bad thing. Having somewhere to drive home to for Christmas? Yeah. A guy could get used to that.

"Merry Christmas sweetheart."


End file.
